[Written for the Sentinel]

"The poppies of Flanders"

HE is not there; beneath the flowers of sleep He knows nor sleep nor dull forgetfulness. They say beneath the sword they laid him deep, And o'er him sobbed in sorrow's dumb distress; But nay, he is not there. The sunbeams press Their kisses o'er his brow, and sanguine flowers (Meet garb of Flanders in her war-stained dress) Above him shed their burning tears in showers For many a flaming mile, and mix their woes with ours.

But weep not for the brave; he sorrows not Save for thy tears. The bitterness of pain, The hardship and the hate he has forgot; Only the good and true with him remain, For these are deathless; and he must retain All that he knew of God. The poppies fade And fall and flutter in the wind and rain; Beneath their rustling roof the dust is laid, But he yet lives and loves, peerless and undismayed.

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